


You smell Simla before you see it

by medieval_scribe



Category: Indian Summers (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 00:22:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3748513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medieval_scribe/pseuds/medieval_scribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fragrance can invoke a memory, kindle love, and start a revolution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You smell Simla before you see it

The scent lingers as she walks away, as light and golden as she is. He tries not to breathe out, tries to hold on to it just a little longer.

Aafrin can’t quite place it, but it reminds him of his boyhood, of walking through his grandfather’s garden, wet with new rain, pregnant with the smell of turned earth. The old man would hold his hand and teach him about plants, the shapes of the leaves, the names of the trees, the scents of the flowers.

It comes to him eventually, not all at once, but in snatches. Stolen glances and bits of idle conversation, each punctuated by the same fragrance, these become parts of a puzzle he recognizes but cannot quite solve.

Then he finds her scarf, a purplish grey smear of silk against the icy blue moonlight of the cemetery, and all the pieces fall into place. Lavender. He holds the scarf close and when he closes his eyes, all he can see are the golden tendrils of Alice’s hair reaching out to capture the sun.

–

Shoes scuff over mud and rock as they trudge across the narrow path. Ian, suddenly the gentleman, is walking her to the edge of the Mall, as far as propriety and politics will allow. But Sooni is the real protector here and they both know it.

She’s worried about him. In the rare moments when he is both sober and unguarded, he gives the impression of a man not just far from home, but a man who has never had a home. He is unmoored, adrift on a sea of cheap whiskey and self-loathing. He’s desperate for something to cling to, and for now, Ramu’s trial is the anchor. But one day, she thinks, Ian will let go and they will all drown in his wake.

They are walking past a neatly tended hedgerow–very English, she thinks–when he stops in his tracks.

“What’s that smell?”

She sniffs the air, testing it. There’s nothing unusual tonight.

His brows knit together as he tries to place the smell. “Like a perfume. Or flowers maybe?”

“Ah. That’s _mogra_. Jasmine.” Experimentally, she leans over the garden gate and picks a tiny white flower. “See? It’s not that common in Simla, but in Bombay, you can find it everywhere.” She twirls the flower absently between two fingers. “They make garlands out of it, wear it in their hair.”

He does not ask the obvious question, but she can sense it in the slight quirk of his eyebrow. She shakes her head. “Not me. Revolution and flowers don’t mix.”

He laughs. “Oh, that’s right.” He punches the air with a half-hearted fist. “ _Inqilab zindabad_.”

Her surprise at the words is quickly replaced by amusement at the way his lilting Scottish brogue slides and bumps against the jagged edges of those rebellious words.

“Did I say it wrong?”

She shakes her head. “Where did you hear that?”

“Oh, here and there.” He gives her a lopsided smile. “In prison. When I last visited Ramu.”

“Ah.” She waits for him to say more, but he just stands there, looking awkward and sheepish until she realizes they’re nearly at the Mall. Already, they are attracting curious and not altogether friendly looks. “I should go.”

He nods. “Aye, good night.” He watches her walk off into the narrow alley until she’s just a smudge against the darkening dusk sky. It’s only when he turns back into the road that he spies the little flower girl at the corner, her basket overflowing with jasmine garlands.

–

Aafrin takes a deep breath and surveys his family. It is one of those rare Sundays when there is no pressing government business, and he can choose to just be himself, if only for a few moments.

But he is not at peace. Despite his best efforts, he cannot erase the scent of lavender, nor the images his brain conjures to go with the smell. He’s tried to write down his feelings, to draw them, a sort of exorcism by pencil and paper. But the words will not come, and every drawing ends up looking like Alice.

He thinks of more drastic measures. Maybe exposing himself to the scent will rid him of this infatuation.

“Sooni, do you remember Baapi brought Ma back some perfume from the war? Lavender, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, Aafrin. That was fourteen years ago. Probably all gone by now.” There’s a world of mystery in the crooked smile she gives him. “Besides, _mogra_ is so much nicer.”

Aafrin is left frowning as his sister brushes past him, a strand of jasmine in her hair, the scent lingering as she walks away.

**Author's Note:**

> “Inqilab zindabad” is Urdu/Hindustani for “long live the revolution.”


End file.
